


Truth

by inkandpaperhowl



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: F/F, Femslash February
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-23
Updated: 2016-02-23
Packaged: 2018-05-22 19:33:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,119
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6091750
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inkandpaperhowl/pseuds/inkandpaperhowl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“'Not everything is always about you.' (Lie.)" femslash feb drabble</p>
            </blockquote>





	Truth

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Kogiopsis](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kogiopsis/gifts).



> For a femslash february prompt meme thing; the prompt was "forceful kiss."

.

She finds Clarke in the market in Polis, and she forces herself to not breathe a sigh of relief when she spots her. She’s fighting a new war every ten minutes it seems, but these wars are small, quiet things that erupt in the back of her mind and are fought in whispers of conscience and shouts of needs. She doesn’t want to restrict Clarke to the tower--can’t restrict her without making her think she’s a prisoner--but she wishes she could, just to keep her safe. Keep her inside, keep her where she can see her or at least know that she has guards. 

But Clarke would never stand for that, and she knows that if she did it, she’d feel guilty. One does not lock up a panther and expect it to purr. So she pretends that the knot in her stomach whenever Clarke leaves the tower is completely unrelated. 

She always finds excuses to follow her, though. 

Today, it’s at a reasonable distance ( _lie)_ , and though she watches Clarke covertly from under her hood, gesturing for her people to not reveal her presence, she’s pretty sure Clarke knows. Clarke always knows. And they’ve been through the steps of this dance enough times that they both have it memorized, and so when Clarke turns from a booth full of delicately carved beads to meet Lexa’s eyes with a wry smile on her face, Lexa doesn’t turn away. She just smiles back briefly, before turning to another stall and accepting the proprietor's offer of a leg of grilled fowl. 

When Clarke moves away from the bead stall, Lexa takes her place, glancing over the array of beautiful wares, and asks which ones Clarke had been looking at. The merchant tucks her smile into the corners of her mouth and points to a necklace made up of beads that map the stars--each one a constellation strung together on a fine leather thong, and Lexa buys it without hesitating. The smile uncurls a little more, but the merchant doesn’t say anything, and wraps the beads up for her commander. Lexa refuses to pay less than the asking price, and the merchant thanks her as she walks away, scanning the crowd for Clarke. 

She frowns when she can’t see her, and there’s a sudden knot in her stomach, that bubble of worry and doubt that she refuses to admit is fear ( _lie)_. There are too many people in the market, and she turns again, opening her mouth to ask a passerby if they’ve seen which way Clarke went, but she’s cut off as a hand grabs her wrist, tugging her down an alley, out of the crowd. 

She can either drop the package of beads and go for her knife, or trail along after her assailant who pushes her further into the dark corners of the alley, her arm twisted up behind her back. But the other person hasn’t drawn a weapon, and so she endures. And then there’s a hint of a scent on a trickle of breeze, and she relaxes, and allows Clarke to thrust her up against the wall of the dead-end. 

Clarke shakes her hood away from her face and presses her arm across Lexa’s collarbones, restraining her without hurting or even really threatening hurt, and Lexa tries not to think about how Clarke can probably feel her heart beginning to race. 

“Commander,” Clarke says, and her voice is low and dangerous, but there’s a smile playing about the corners of her eyes. “Were you following me?”

Lexa meets her gaze and raises an eyebrow, daring Clarke to continue. Clarke merely raises her own eyebrow, rising to the dare, and her hand, still gripping Lexa’s wrist, twists upward as she steps closer still. The space between them is measured in breaths, and Lexa presses herself into the wall, half-wishing the stone would swallow her. Clarke smiles. 

“Even commanders occasionally go into the market, Clarke,” Lexa says calmly, willing her heart rate to slow, pretending she can’t feel Clarke’s racing to match hers, knowing what it means that she used her name. “Not everything is always about you.” _(Lie_.) 

Clarke doesn’t answer in words. She leans forward instead, her body pressing up against Lexa’s, and her kiss is hungry. Needing. Her lips are hot and forceful, half-desperate. There’s resistance in Lexa, the part of her that is _heda_ knows this is wrong, that this is weak, that this is only going to destroy her, in the end. But the part of her that is _Lexa_ pushes back, surging away from the wall to crash into Clarke, her hand tearing out of Clarke’s grasp so that she can press her fingers into Clarke’s hair, tangling there, holding her steady as the kiss deepens. 

She forces her tongue past Clarke’s lips, tracing the edges of her mouth, and Clarke lets out something like a moan and presses back, her hands splayed across Lexa’s back as if she can hold her closer, as if she can’t already feel Lexa’s heart crashing in her own ribcage. She catches Lexa’s bottom lip between her own, and her fingers will leave bruises along Lexa’s spine, and she doesn’t stop. Lexa wouldn’t want her to. 

They break apart slowly, gentle after the force of the kiss, breathing heavily. Lexa’s hand, tangled in Clarke’s hair, holds her still as their eyes open, refusing to let her go entirely. There is fire in Clarke only visible this close, only glimpsed behind the walls when they’ve fallen in moments of weakness, a fire that burns like a sun, too much too quickly, and Lexa is afraid that she will burn out. She uses this as an excuse to pull up her own walls again, retreating to where it’s safe. ( _Lie._ ) But she doesn’t say anything--can’t find the words for it. Instead, she presses her forehead against Clarke’s and slips the package of beads into her pocket and gently pushes herself away from the wall, forcing Clarke to back away, her hands dropping from Lexa’s back. 

“I still have a few things left to buy,” Lexa says, grinning, ( _lying_ ,) and she leaves Clarke standing in the darkened alley, lips swollen, fingers aching to be back against hers. The war in her head screams at her to go back, to let herself love Clarke in words, in kisses and touches and wants. But she forces herself to walk away, to love Clarke in actions far less personal, in promises, in the needs of her people. She doesn’t wait to hear if Clarke’s heartbeat still matches hers. She doesn’t stay to let herself see if her fingers fit in the spaces between Clarke’s. She already knows they do. 

.


End file.
